


Drunk Drabbles

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Drabble Collection, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Humor, Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Rough Sex, Sex in the Impala, Shameless Smut, Silly, Somnophilia, Threesomes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21670933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: A collection of drabbles featuring your favorite (inebriated) hunters, written by an inebriated me. Mostly smut. Enjoy ;)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/You, Sam Winchester/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	1. Backseat Ride

The leather sticks to your sweaty palms, knees denting into the seat. Sam’s so hot and heavy in your mouth, plugs you up tight while Dean’s dragging so steadily in and out of your cunt.

It’s balmy out, and you’re pulled over on the side of the highway, just finished cleaning out a Vamp nest and the adrenaline was running high. Four hours at the bar had been enough, and god, you were so _ready _by the time they’d walked you back to the Impala.

No use in denying you’d had a thing for both of them; their skill, their general alpha badass - you were fucking putty by the time Dean had veered to the grassy strip just off the asphalt shoulder.

Sam’s got his fingers curled in your hair, the tips press just right into your scalp as he starts to pick up speed. It’s a bit of a struggle to keep your mouth open enough, but you’re so loose with the whiskey that you’re able to keep your jaw dropped without much stress. 

Dean’s picking up speed too; some kind of unspoken telepathy between the brothers you presume, and fuck - they’re both filling - plugging you up so _nicely_.

You can hear the squelch as Dean plunges in, hear the wet as Sam slicks down your throat. You want to use your hands, but you can’t, have to keep yourself still and open so both men can fuck into you.

Dean’s fingers dent into the fleshy bit of your hips, while Sam gather the mess of your hair to the top of your head. 

Sam comes first, fills up your throat with that thick, salty wet- and Dean comes soon after, spilling into you so _warm_. 

It feels like Heaven to be so slicked up with come, makes you feel so sated; so complete. 

You’ve hunted with the best of hunters - but the Winchesters - they’re _definitely _your favorite.


	2. No Turning Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warnings for Non-Con/Somnophilia

God he’s drunk, really fucking drunk. Dean realizes his mistake as soon as he stumbles in, sees the soft form of her underneath the sheets. She’s left the lamp on, probably passed out before she could remember to turn it off.

He’s already perched on the side of the bed before he can think better of it, and he watches her chest rise and fall with slow and steady breaths. He knows she wants him, never has been to good at hiding it - especially after a few drinks. Just tonight he’d caught her staring at his mouth, running her whiskey heavy tongue over the pillow of her pink bottom lip. She’d looked away when his eyes fell on hers, but it was too late - he’s seen it, and he _knew_.

It’s wrong to be watching her like this - god, he feels like a fucking creep, but he can’t tear his eyes away, can’t ignore the twitch of his dick. She’d want this anyway, he decides, his hands on her, pulling and _squeezing_.

He pulls the sheet down to her ankles, breath catching in his throat when he sees that she’s only wearing a thin t-shirt and panties. He runs calloused fingers from her shin to her thigh, blood rushing to his groin when her legs part at his touch. She moans.

Dean pulls her shirt up to bunch under chin, cock fat and heavy in his jeans as he takes in the full swells of her tits over the cups of her bra.

One hand working his belt open, the other palming the heat between her legs-

There’s no going back now.


	3. Rude Awakening

His cheek’s pressed against the polished wood of the library table, empty whiskey tumbler still snug against his palm. The hunt had been a successful one, and Dean had brought it upon himself to celebrate; solo. You’d gone to bed hours ago, but had risen in search of him once awakening to cold sheets.

You’re careful in your approach, mindful not to startle him, get a light palm on his shoulder. You give him a gentle shake, but he doesn’t stir. You strengthen your movements then, and he grunts, head lifting.

“Hey, baby,” you whisper, lips at his ear. “Come to bed.” 

Dean grunts again, pushes off the table with his palm. You help him to his feet, one arm tight around his waist, guiding the other around your shoulder. He gets a good two feet away from the table when he stumbles. You try to steady him, but his mass is too much, and then you’re falling to the floor, trapped under his solid weight.

“Fuck,” you gasp, pushing at his shoulders. “Dean, get up.” His breath is slow and even, a sure sign that he’s fallen back under. “Damnit! Dean!” you hiss, shoving harder, but he isn’t budging. You get your knees up, ankles locking at his back, then use the muscles in your thighs to roll him off-

He groans then, shifts against you, and hell if his hips don’t feel good against your core.

Lashes flutter open, and then mossy eyes hook on yours. “Hey,” he rumbles, voice gruff.

“Hey,” you breathe.

Even now, the blood rushes to your cheeks at your position. You bring your legs down, plant you feet against the cool wood floor, but he’s moving, hitching up against you, and he smiles lazy.

“Ain’t this a way to wake up.”


	4. The Kitchen

Your veins are buzzing hot, and you feel good. _Really_ good.

And Dean’s standing there in the kitchen, slanted against the door frame, beer clutched in those deliciously thick fingers.

Sam’s sitting at the table, sipping his own drink, and you want so badly just to tell him to fuck off already.

Your wobbling catches both their attention, and Dean’s pushing off his support to wrap a heavy arm around your middle. You lean into him, get your own arm around his waist, and fuck if he doesn’t smell good.

Sam chunks his bottle in the trash, slaps a good night against Dean’s shoulder and then he’s thumping toward his room.

“You good, kiddo?” Dean asks, and just the deep rumble of his voice has your head spinning, has your tongue licking your lip into your mouth.

“Mmm,” you manage, your own a voice a full octave lower than usual. “Really good.” You turn in his arms, smooth your hands up and over warm flannel before cupping the back of his neck.

Dean’s eyes go wide, lips cracking open. You push up on the balls of your feet, let your mouth brush over his. He accepts the advance, crushing you to his muscled chest so he can duck down to lick into your mouth.

You’d never realized how multi purposed that kitchen island could be.


	5. The Wrong Room

Your eyes flutter open, blinking into the bunker’s darkness. You shift - startled to find the heavy weight of a muscled arm slung over the dip of your waist.

You turn, still stiff from sleep, and fuck - it’s Dean. You can tell when you smooth your hand over the soft spikes of his hair. You’re only in a thin white t-shirt and panties, clothed but still somehow so very exposed.

His breath pulses against your shoulder, hot and steady. As your consciousness fully awakens, you become acutely aware of a cotton covered lump pressed snug against your ass. Heat flushes over you and your panties dampen. Fuck.

He presses harder against you, murmurs something unintelligible I’m his sleep, big hand falling to cup your breast. You instinctively arch into him, ass pushing against his hardness and he grunts.

You can’t really think of a better way to wake up.


	6. Bathroom Meeting

You’re giggling, actually fucking giggling at your own reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes whiskey-glazed. But you’re so nice and warm; carefree in your drunkenness.

The bathroom door swings open, and you don’t pay much mind until a heavy shoulder knocks into you-

Your hand flies to the porcelain sink in a frantic attempt to catch yourself, but your grip isn’t strong enough and you topple to the floor, right on your ass.

“Fuck,” a low voice says, and then big hands are wrapping around your elbows, pulling. “I’s sorry - you okay?”

On your feet again, you lift your eyes to the man’s face, breath catching in your throat at the sight of mossy eyes and full, pink lips.

“Oh,” you dumbly breathe. “No - yeah. Fine…I’m fine.” You’re grinning, sure you look ditzy as all hell, but this guy is _breathtaking_.

“Y’sure?” He asks, brows high.

“Yeah…I’m…I’m good.” You giggle again, then press your lips together to stifle it.

“I, uh…wrong bathroom…” He smiles, revealing perfect, pearly teeth. “Listen, I really need to take a piss, but…can I buy you a drink after?”

You marvel a little at his boldness, and there’s no way in hell you’re turning him down. “Yeah,” you say, melting a little at the way his warm fingers dent into your skin. “Yeah, I’d like that.”


	7. All Business

His eyes were so fucking hard; piercing - but there was just something about this guy - something do decadently mysterious. His hair laid in smooth waves against his face, his mouth set hard as rumbled out the questions. Ten people had gone missing, four found with missing organs.

You had no answers of course, but the way he just _looked _at you had your own insides liquefying. 

Four hours later, and he’s fucking into you, palm clamped hard over your mouth to keep you silent. He’s still suited, dress pants unzipped, jacket forgotten as he rocks in deep. Your heels are locked just above his ass. 

Your roommate is asleep in the opposite bed, completely oblivious to the way the FBI agent is cracking you apart. You come silently, convulsing against his hand, against his rocking hips. He follows soon after, spilling into your spasming cunt, hot and thick. 

You awake the next morning, sore and achy, and you find a crumpled business card laying on the opposite pillow with a scribbled cell number on the back. 


	8. I Swear to God

You should be ashamed to be doing this in the men’s restroom, but you just can’t with those whimpering little sounds you’re pulling out of him. You’re still warm with whiskey, head fuzzy, but it’s just so _good_, and he’s so fucking fat and full in your mouth.

He’s got one hand braced against the stall, the other fisting your hair. “Shit,” he chokes, fingers shifting, “keep doing that with your mouth, I swear to god-”

His words cut when you hum around him, bring a hand up to cradle his balls. You get your free hand up to his belly, slip your fingers underneath the warm cotton of his t-shirt to feel his stomach muscles clench and ripple as you work him over. You keep your lips soft, but cheeks tight.

“Oh, god,” he whimpers, and it sounds so funny coming out of this deadly hunter that you almost laugh.

He comes only seconds later, coating your tongue with all that hot, sticky wet.

“Damn, baby,” Dean says, after pulling you to your feet, hands already on your hips, whirling you until your back hits the cool stall. “My turn.” His grin is lazy, but hungry, and then he sinks to his knees.


	9. Empty

God he’s just so _warm_. You shift and grind, feel that delightful lump right against your center. His hands frame your hips, fingertips pressing just shy of pain.

His cheeks are flushed, the blood just under the skin, pupils so blown you miss the green. His lips are so soft and inviting that you duck down to trace them with your tongue - they taste like the earthy spice of whiskey.

You swing your hips against him just a little harder, and god, you’re just so achy and _empty._

“Need something?” he asks, eyes shining, and you want to just fuck the mirth right out of him, want watch those eyes glaze over as you squeeze and flutter around him.

“Yeah,” you choke, hands falling to the button of your jeans. “Do you?”


	10. Prove It

“Y’want me?” he asks, hips pressed so perfectly against yours that you’re almost content to just lay there, deliciously crushed underneath all that lean muscle.

“Yeah,” you grunt, slurred a little from alcohol clouding your brain - and the smirk stretching his pink lips is almost enough to send you over the edge then and there.

“Prove it.” His eyes are dark and daring. You heave yourself up, searching for friction, and you do get it, enough at least to send a surge of electric pleasure zipping though your limbs.

“That’s it,” he whispers, dropping his head to lick at the shell of your ear. “Fucking _grind_.”


	11. The Spell

The drink’s heavy in your blood, has your mind fuzzy and light enough you figure it’s harmless enough. 

“Dic mihi verum intimum.” The words flick off your tongue easy, and your lips spread in an intrigued smile as you watch the spell wash over him, watch it settle behind his hazel eyes.

Cas throws you a look; skeptical and edged, while Jack simply looks at you with those soft puppy eyes. Deans lips have parted in wonder, brows furrowed as he tries to make sense of the Latin.

“Taste,” Sam says. “I… I like taste.”

There’s a swift silence and then you’re all erupting into belly-deep laughter - all at once. You know the spell was light enough to be disguised under the alcohol, but - you know, and you’ll pocket it inside you for just a little while longer.

*

An hour later, Sam’s propped up against a sole pillow; clothes trailing sloppy from the door. You perch next to him, let your fingers toy with the waistband of his boxers as your eyes drink in the ruddy flush of his cheeks and vodka-glaze of his eyes. 

“Taste,” you purr, beaming as his eyes flick to yours. “That’s your deepest truth?” He looks away, worries at his bottom lip - and if it isn’t the most _adorable_ thing. “C’mon,” you prod, scraping your glossy-black nails up the the length of his carved belly and chest. “Tell me.”

“I just…” His eyes meet yours again. “I like the way you taste.”

You grin down at him, lean over so your lips are the faintest brush against his. “Do you want to taste me, hunter?” Sam’s jaw works hard, lashes fluttering. “Yeah - I… I do.” 

You make quick work of your jeans and panties, leave them rumpled at the floor as you knee your way up. He’s settled down flat on the mattress, pillow abandoned, still slotted up against the headboard. You ease down, let your cunt hover just over his mouth, and then your eyes roll as he drags his tongue along the damp seam of your cunt.

It’s all his fault really, for falling in love with a witch.


End file.
